


Soft

by idk_man_I_just_work_here



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Crowley-centric (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), alright this is officially my most popular fic yall love some gomens huh?, can you tell this is a thinly veiled cry for physical and emotional intimacy????, crowley is an anxious mess, i wrote most of this while listening to Let Go by Beau Young Prince on repeat, i wrote this bc a friend of mine and i did a writing prompt together, i'm back after 5 months of silence, if you show him one (1) ounce of attention he will melt into a puddle of love, so do what you will with that information, so if my dear friend stumbles upon this fic my secret account will have been discovered, so if you found this Rose it is a gift to you that i am too nervous to send directly!, thank you for getting me out of my writer's block, yall wanna read something PAINFULLY tender??, you gotta write the fics you wish to see in the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 07:39:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20373112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idk_man_I_just_work_here/pseuds/idk_man_I_just_work_here
Summary: He’s stopped paying attention to exactly what Aziraphale is saying minutes ago, too distracted by the muted motions of his hands. He does his best to maintain eye contact, but he can only control himself for so long. His eyes inevitably drift to the crinkles around Aziraphale’s eyes, the strong bridge of his nose, his sleepy smile, the seam of his lips lightly stained by the burgundy liquor.He loves nights like these. Both not quite drunk, just a touch tipsy, flushed in the cheeks and a little too earnest. Just enough to chip away at the walls of inhibition.





	Soft

The moment Crowley enters the bookshop, he takes a deep breath. He’ll never say it out loud, or even think it too loudly, but he loves the familiar scent of the old books, beeswax candles, and… perhaps he’s imagining it, but he detects just a hint of Aziraphale’s cologne. He closes and locks the door behind him, letting the warmth of the room melt away the tension he hadn’t noticed in his jaw and forehead. The atmosphere in Aziraphale’s shop couldn’t be any cozier, with the dim lights washing everything in a vaguely sepia tone, the rain tapping against the windows, the rumbling of soft thunder and light traffic. It’s almost as though time has slowed again; the cold, harsh world continuing on while this little safe haven remained untouched, untainted by it. 

Crowley slides off his glasses and shakes his head to clear his head of those thoughts. He’s been listening to too much of Aziraphale’s poetry again. 

“Angel?” he shouts. 

He receives a muffled, “In the back, dear!” 

As Crowley makes his way there, Aziraphale has already poured two glasses of rich red wine, and turns to hand a glass to Crowley as he enters the room. 

He lifts his brows, but happily accepts and sits on the arm of the couch. “Jumping straight to the drinking, are we?” 

Aziraphale lifts his glass. “We’re celebrating!” 

“Oh?” 

Aziraphale holds his glass close to his chest and smiles. “I’ve spoken with that landlord in South Downs.” 

“Mm!” Crowley finishes taking a sip with wide eyes, nearly spitting his drink. “Oh, right! Did we..?” 

Aziraphale nods and lifts his glass for a toast. 

Crowley obliges with a lopsided smile. Aziraphale’s kind eyes meet his own and the two sit in peaceful silence for a moment... and another. Crowley’s smile falters. 

Aziraphale’s brows twitch with concern, but Crowley breaks eye contact to throw back the rest of his wine before he can say anything. 

He raises the empty glass and gives him a smirk. 

Aziraphale follows suit and downs the rest of his glass before miraculously refilling both of them. 

Crowley slides down the arm of the couch and sprawls across half of the cushions. Considering he usually manages to take up more space than seems possible for his wiry frame to occupy, this is conservative. Something about Aziraphale’s presence always made him want to be conservative. Or perhaps not conservative, but rather he felt that here, he didn’t feel the need to be so forceful in everything he does. 

Aziraphale seats himself next to Crowley, who gives him a quick sidelong glance. He always sits in the chair across from him, never on the couch, and especially not close enough for their knees to brush. 

He’s easily distracted from it as Aziraphale starts talking enthusiastically about all the plans he has for their new place, the garden, the neighbors. Crowley loves to listen to him; he’s usually shy and reserved. It’s always a pleasure to watch him speak without worry, allow himself to forget keeping up appearances and just ramble. 

He’s stopped paying attention to exactly what Aziraphale is saying minutes ago, too distracted by the muted motions of his hands. He does his best to maintain eye contact, but he can only control himself for so long. His eyes inevitably drift to the crinkles around Aziraphale’s eyes, the strong bridge of his nose, his sleepy smile, the seam of his lips lightly stained by the burgundy liquor. 

He loves nights like these. Both not quite drunk, just a touch tipsy, flushed in the cheeks and a little too earnest. Just enough to chip away at the walls of inhibition. 

He catches his thoughts drifting and looks off into the distance, sure Aziraphale hadn’t noticed, but hiding his worries nonetheless. 

Aziraphale places a hand on his knee, and his gaze instantly snaps back, a defensive brow lifted. Aziraphale looks suddenly concerned, searching for words when just a few moments prior, the worry lines had melted from his face and thoughts flowed freely. 

Crowley tries to focus while Aziraphale puts together what he wants to say, but he can’t take his attention off of the hand on his leg. Before the almost-end-of-the-world, touch between them was fleetingly rare and consciously avoided. Without the constant paranoia that they would be separated or the false pretense that they were nothing more than business associates, it was becoming more commonplace for casual touch. Though a slight discomfort comes with the unfamiliarity, it is far outweighed by Crowley’s relief of finally allowing himself to want it. 

How ironic for him, a creature of supposedly nothing other than want, to deny himself the thing he wanted most. 

Aziraphale purses his lips for a final moment before speaking. “Are you alright, dear?” 

The gentle sincerity in his voice leaves a sense of fullness in Crowley’s chest, one which he’s experienced on multiple occasions in the recent past and is still unaccustomed to. He attempts to default to his usually guarded expression, but he’s sure the hot blush of his cheeks gives him away in an instant. Damn the booze. 

“Course, I’m alright.” 

Aziraphale purses his lips again, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb in little half circles on Crowley’s knee. It takes an extraordinary amount of effort for him to not reach for Aziraphale’s hand. How _ painfully _ ironic for him to deny himself these things. 

His voice almost a whisper, Aziraphale says, “You don’t have to pretend, darling.” 

Crowley’s guarded expression breaks, but his body stays rigid. 

He takes a shallow breath, and in monotone so as not to betray too much emotion, says, “It’s all… it’s all so…” He waves his hand in small, forward circles. 

Aziraphale smiles sadly, and perhaps a little guiltily. “... fast?” he finishes.

Crowley’s eyes flit over to the hand which has somehow made its way to his lower thigh. 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Aziraphale starts to lift his hand, deeply regretful that he had made him uncomfortable. 

“No.” Crowley’s hand shoots over and holds Aziraphale’s in place. His eyes are pleading for a moment, brows furrowed and lips parted as he frantically searches for a way to put the turmoil of his suppressed thoughts into a coherent sentence, until he realizes… he doesn’t have to. 

Aziraphale has a natural knack for picking up on these things. Detecting powerful emotions: joy, passion, and love— even thinking the words sends Crowley’s stomach rolling with anxiety. Ever since he’d started having them, having such taboo _ feelings _ and _ ridiculous _human desires— thoughts too kind and tender for an infernal being to possess— he’d done everything in his power to not think them in Aziraphale’s presence. He knew if he did, surely Aziraphale would abandon him, and the torture of fighting back his thoughts whenever he was near was far worth the rare interactions he was allowed. 

But with Aziraphale’s hand gently cradling his knee, the genuine concern in his eyes, and the unspoken promise that they’ll never be apart again after the terrifying threat of losing each other forever… he’s too tired to do this anymore. 

After several moments of excruciating quiet, which should be nothing compared to the last several thousand years, Crowley lets down the barrier holding back his thoughts about and emotions for Aziraphale, and they flood the forefront of his mind. 

Aziraphale sucks in a sharp breath as the wave of powerful emotion suddenly overwhelms him. 

“Crowley!” his voice is barely more than a gasp. “Oh my—” he pauses, putting his other hand to his chest in an attempt to catch his breath— he hasn’t felt something this strong for a very, very long time. He’d gotten flickers of this from Crowley on scarce occasions, and only so briefly that he’d almost convinced himself he’d imagined it, or simply mistaken the source. It had never occurred to him that Crowley was holding anything back, let alone this _ much. _

He breathes quietly for a moment, trying to process everything. How vulnerable his counterpart has made himself in this moment, and how scared he must be. Though sensing things like that has always been Crowley’s specialty, and Aziraphale is left to speculate.

After he catches his breath, with the initial jar of emotion passed, Aziraphale closes his eyes and breathes in Crowley’s new presence, much like a reptile basking in the sun. He finally opens his eyes after a few moments of peaceful quiet, not looking anywhere in particular, and releases his hold on Crowley’s leg.

Crowley's heart falls, unprepared to face rejection, and even less prepared to face acceptance. But instead of pulling his hand away, like he’d anticipated, Aziraphale simply flips it over to hold his, whose hand had been stiffly placed over top of Aziraphale's. He brushes his thumb softly over Crowley’s knuckles in an attempt to relax his tense appendages. 

“My love…” he nearly whispers again, that soft yet insistent sincerity that never fails to send a pang through Crowley’s chest. “Of all the auras I’ve felt, yours is by far the most warm and serene I’ve yet encountered.” 

Crowley’s pulse skips. _ ‘My love,’ _ he’d said. It wasn’t a term of endearment he’d never heard before. In fact, he had heard him say it many times, but only in passing, as an absentminded nickname. This time, it had been said with such quiet and gentle fervor, a tone of voice that had Crowley just about ready to burst. He squeezes his hand tighter around Aziraphale’s, aching for more touch and afraid of it at the same time. 

Aziraphale eyes over his companion. He’s still tense, and though he’s in the same lounged position, appears uncomfortable. His expression is hard to discern, and is certainly not contradictory to the waves of emotion he’s broadcasting, but also doesn’t seem to match them either. It isn’t until he starts to fidget with the frames of his sunglasses, his biggest tell, that Aziraphale realizes— he’s anxious. 

“Dear boy…” Crowley turns his wide eyes to meet Aziraphale’s. “You’ve nothing to fear.” He lifts Crowley’s slender hand and places a tender kiss on his fingers, then the back of his hand, and his wrist. 

The sensitive tingle the press of Aziraphale’s lips leaves against his feverish skin is too much. The kiss on his fingers wakes every nerve in that limb, the kiss on the back of his hand gives him goosebumps strongly enough to make his skin prickle. The final kiss upon the sensitive underside of his wrist... that kiss is too_ much._ Crowley finally gives in to the temptation he’s been fighting all night, the temptation he’s been fighting for a nearly immeasurable number of years. 

With the dilation of his slitted pupils Aziraphale’s only warning, Crowley lurches over, takes him by the sides of his face, and pulls him desperately to his lips. Aziraphale inhales sharply as Crowley urgently presses himself to his angel, frantic to be closer to him. 

For a split second, Aziraphale is stiff, but he finds his bearings quickly, allowing his hands to find Crowley’s narrow waist beneath his loose coat. Crowley is forceful, domineering in everything he does, so it’s no surprise to Aziraphale how unforgiving, nearly ruthless he is at first, but the stroke of his thumbs on Crowley’s sides effortlessly relaxes his desperately panicked embrace into something sweet and delicate, sentimental. 

Aziraphale’s kiss, strikingly deft, is warm and tastes pleasantly of the tart red wine they’d shared. He leans into Crowley, and gently pulls him closer and nearly into his lap, startling a quiet ‘hmph’ from his throat. Aziraphale smiles softly into his lips at the reaction, nearly leaving him nothing but a loose pile of black clothes and sunglasses. Everything about Aziraphale is so damn _ soft. _ Soft demeanor, soft gaze, soft voice, soft touch, and now soft lips. He’s embarrassed to admit to himself how Aziraphale, in an instant and with barely an action, had turned him to putty in his hands. 

Much to his own surprise, Crowley is quickly overwhelmed with emotion, and has to pull away with a lump in his throat. They part, eyes closed, still close enough for their noses and foreheads to touch. Crowley’s hands still pressed to Aziraphale’s soft cheeks, Aziraphale’s vice grip on Crowley’s waist not wavering. Neither are quite able to move, and neither loosens their grip. They stay still for a few moments, chests rising and falling together, taking breaths they don't need, able to feel each other’s hearts that aren’t required to beat pounding in tandem. So incredibly… human. 

Aziraphale chuckles, the sweet acidic smell of alcohol still on his breath. He raises a hand to brush a thumb against Crowley’s cheek, who unashamedly melts, leaning his head into the touch. 

Crowley's powerful presence still dizzying his thoughts, Aziraphale can only think clearly enough to ask one question.

“How many years?” 

Crowley draws his eyebrows up and together— Aziraphale's inflection is so painfully _ soft _ that his heart finds a way to jump into his throat and sink to the pit of his stomach at the same time. He swallows, still a little breathless. 

With the pulse in his ears finally quieting, he can hear the rain again, and the soft rumble of thunder and light traffic, and he’s reminded that time hasn’t stopped. Instead of suppressing his thoughts, he blissfully takes in the familiar scent of old books, beeswax candles, and he’s certainly not imagining Aziraphale’s cologne. He finally opens his eyes to find Aziraphale’s gaze patiently awaiting his, the cool blue of his irises prettily juxtaposed against the warm sepia shadows lining his features.

How pleasant, he realizes, to finally let himself feel freely. 

“I think... I’ve loved you for all of them.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, sweet reader, for making it to the end! I appreciate each and every one of you that feels my writing is worth leaving kudos or a comment on. You're all so lovely.


End file.
